Sunday is not a good day to work.

So it’s a good thing it’s Monday now. I

Sigh. The guys are outside, in
their area, fixing the materials for presentation later. I’m alone in the
conference room, surrounded by the detritus of this afternoon’s meeting: an
almost-empty pack of Regent Cheese Rings, someone’s Starbucks glass, and five
squares of dark chocolate.

Because the
lights are on, and it’s pitch black outside, I can see myself in the window. I’m
wearing a green shirt printed with a black devil holding a tuning fork, and my
hair looks just about as limp as the muscles threatening to detach themselves
and just float with mad grins around my spine. It’s nights like these that make
me wonder why advertising, after all these years, has yet to finish me

I’m probably being saved for a more
gruesome death. Something that involves my natural clumsiness and the abundance
of cables in this office.

On a
sprightlier note, Jon’s external hard disk, with the entertaining name “That’s
Enclosure” printed on top, is going to be the keeper of 10 GB’s worth of files
on my behalf, until I can afford one of my own. The act of deleting multiple
folders has a slight thrill, akin to throwing away yellowing letters from people
who are, by now, too far away in time to merit dislike.